


I Shall Be Released

by Black_Betty



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Brothels, M/M, Prostitution, Smitten Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-30 05:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3924877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Betty/pseuds/Black_Betty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles goes to a brothel that specializes in mutant clients.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Be Released

The front of the building is a nondescript red brick that blends into the rows of posh businesses and residential townhouses on either side. Charles stands for a moment before the unlabelled dark wood door, summoning up the courage to knock while half his brain is hailing a cab and heading back uptown. Between one breath and the next, like ripping off a band aid, his knuckles brush the polished oak and the door swings open to reveal a beautiful, demure young man, his arrival so prompt Charles suspects he was lying in wait.

Charles is ushered through the door and helped out of his overcoat, his attendant turning elegantly to hang it from an enormous coat-rack of carved wood before proceeding down the hall. Though the young man keeps his eyes courteously averted, Charles can sense a subtle buzz of attraction dancing across the surface of his mind. It sets the tone nicely even when the boy slips away after guiding Charles inside a lavishly appointed office, and he feels his nerves dampen as he settles into the soft leather chair by the fireplace, anxiety slowly replaced with a pooling well of arousal low in his gut.

He tries to maintain that sense of calm and anticipation as he waits for the proprietor to join him. It’s not as though he’s afraid of sex, or even of purchasing sex, albeit in an elegant, upscale part of the red-light district that champions discretion and strict confidentiality. It’s more that he’s stepping over a line he hasn’t crossed before. That he promised himself he would never cross. He feels distinctly ajar and abstract as though pieces of himself are on display and about to be scooped out.

He jumps as a wood-paneled door on the far wall opens on smooth hinges.  A woman enters, her hair and clothes starched white and pristine; the resulting look is a modern and jarring juxtaposition against the rustic warm mahogany of the room, and the facility in general. It makes her stand out like a flame in the darkness and Charles finds it hard to pull his eyes away from her.

“Dr. Xavier,” she says, crossing to him and extending a hand. When he stands to take it her handshake is firm and unrelenting, her skin cold, like marble.

“Ms. Frost?” She smiles at him, sharp, and gestures at him to sit. She takes the seat across from him and smoothly crosses her legs, one spiked heel resting precariously close to his knee.

“I’ve looked over your file carefully, Dr. Xavier, but I’d like to get a better idea of what you’re looking for, in your own words.”

Charles shifts in his chair, trying for some of the serene authority he manufactures in class. From the way Frost raises an eyebrow and placidly waits him out, he thinks she’s not quite fooled.

“Well, if you’ve read my file, than you know I’m a telepath,” he begins, and Frost gives him an incredulous look.

“Forgive me, Professor, but I think that anyone who reads the newspaper knows that you are a telepath.”

“Yes, well,” he can feel his face beginning to heat, but presses onwards. “Even before my current…notoriety, sex has been a struggle for me.” Frost places her elbow on the armrest of her chair and tips her head into her hand.

“In what way?” she asks, watching him carefully.

Charles swallows down the sudden swell of discomfort and tries to remind himself why he came here, tries to keep his nerve. _It’s too late to back out now,_ he reminds himself and startles when another voice slips past his shields to whisper,

_As you can see, I have a unique understand of your ability_. He looks at Frost with wide eyes and the smile she gives him is very nearly warm. _Please feel free to be completely open with me_. “I can show you our non-disclosure agreement again, if you like?”

Charles shakes his head.

“I’ve always been afraid of influencing those I go to bed with,” he says, choosing each word carefully. “Of…overwhelming them. I have to shield in all aspects of my life, but I find sex to be especially difficult when it comes to maintaining those shields. Sex has always been enjoyable, pleasurable, but I can’t help but think that it’s not…it’s not…”

“Everything it could be?” Frost asks with a wry smile.

“Precisely.” He sighs. “And now that the general public knows that I am a telepath, I can’t seem to find anyone to share _any_ kind of intimacy with.” He smiles at Frost ruefully. “It’s hard to be intimate with someone who’s afraid that you’re coercing them.”

She nods slowly and watches him for another moment, one pristinely manicured finger tapping thoughtfully against her lips. After a moment of quiet Charles feels obligated to break the silence.

“I’m not interested in controlling anyone. It’s not about control—“

“It’s about freedom,” she finishes for him, and he feels something tight loosen in his chest. She folds her hands in her lap and leans back in her chair. “Dr. Xavier, you know our policy. What we offer is liberation from the prescribed societal standards of what is considered “normal”. I hope you understand that your ability is not only accepted here, but embraced. Celebrated, even.”

“I read the brochure,” he jokes, trying to cover the absurd lump of tears coalescing at the back of his throat.

“You are free, of course, to peruse our catalogue, but I was hoping you might permit me to make a special recommendation?”

Emma Frost strikes him as someone who is ruthlessly competent so he nods and waits for her to stand and pluck a large tablet from the desk in the corner. She turns it on, the bright light illuminating her skin, and begins swiping across the screen.

“You have no gender preference, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Good.” She returns to her vacated chair and hands him the tablet. On the screen is an image of a man in black and white. Wide, clear eyes stare up at him challengingly above a thin, unsmiling mouth, the sharp line of his jaw clenched stubbornly.

“He’s not as contrary as he looks,” Frost says with a smile, “And he has something…unique to offer you. Something I think you’ll enjoy very much.”

Charles spends another moment looking him over. He’s handsome in a tall, dark and possibly murderous kind of way. Charles has always been a little weak in the knees for that type and it's the final push he needs. He looks at Frost and musters a confident smile.

“I trust your judgment Ms. Frost.”

***

Frost puts him in a private suite at the end of a long series of corridors. A small, elegant sitting room and a roaring fire greet him as he enters, and beyond the far wall, through a set of open double doors, a candlelit bedroom and a broad, canopied bed lie waiting.

He takes a seat in the sitting room once Frost bids him goodnight. The bedroom looms tauntingly in the background, but waiting there seems strangely forward, even for a brothel. He’s unsure whether he should shed his suit jacket or his shoes, worries that his cufflinks will get lost as the night progresses, fiddling with them while staring into the fire, feeling his face grow hot. He tries to remind himself that he’s done this before, even though a small part of his mind protests that this is different. This time it’s going to be different.

Finally there is a knock on the door. Charles jumps to his feet, heart beating heavily in his chest, and tries to level his breathing before he calls, “Come in.”

A man steps through the door, the same man from the photograph, tall and imposing in a well tailored burgundy suit that fits him in all the right places. He closes the door softly and then turns to look at Charles, eyes roving over him slowly from head to toe. The black and white of the photograph hadn’t captured the colour of his gaze, a shifting blue and green in the firelight, or the dark auburn of his hair. The silence of the room grows oppressive until finally the man steps forward and extends a hand.

“Dr. Xavier.” His grip is rough and callused when Charles slides their hands together and Charles shivers involuntarily. Suddenly the touch of skin seems charged and intimate and the man’s mouth curls into a smile as though his bright gaze can see straight into Charles’ mind.

“A pleasure,” he answers before drawing his hand away. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Ms. Frost didn’t give me your name, Mr…?”

“You can call me Erik,” the man replies, and Charles wonders if that’s his real name. It suits him, the rough bite of it coinciding with the subtle hint of a German accent hovering around his words. “Would you like a drink?” Erik asks, heading over to the sideboard along the far wall where a collection of bottles stand at the ready.

“Scotch?”

Erik pours two fingers for each of them and returns to where Charles is still standing awkwardly by the fire, stepping in close to hand over his glass.

“Cheers,” Charles says before taking a slow sip, meeting Erik’s gaze when he finds himself being watched. The way Erik is looking at him, eyes sharply focused on his lips pressed against the rim of the glass, on his throat as he slowly swallows, he feels pinned and vulnerable. It’s not a feeling he’s accustomed to, and it sends a thrill down his spine to settle in his groin.

He watches carefully in turn as Erik drinks from his own glass, swallowing nearly all of the contents in one mouthful and licking his lips, that slow smile gracing his face again when Charles can’t draw his eyes away. They’ve pressed closer somehow, though Charles doesn’t remember either of them moving, and he’s aware of how much taller Erik is, of how broad his shoulders are and how he smells like something sweet and something spicy. He wants to tuck his face in close to his throat and breathe him in, but he detours to Erik’s mouth instead, lifting one hand to his chin and drawing him down for a kiss. Erik’s lips are wet and taste like scotch and his mouth opens promisingly, his tongue flickering out to taste the swell of Charles’ lower lip, drawing an involuntary moan from Charles’ throat.

After a moment Erik draws back, leaving Charles unsteady on his feet, his equilibrium thrown. Erik carefully presses his thumb against Charles mouth and then steps away, gesturing toward the fireplace.

“Shall we sit?”

Instead of the heavy wingback chairs from Frost’s office, there is a small, plush loveseat build low to the ground. It’s small enough that when they sit, their knees brush together, the material of Erik’s trousers dragging along the outside of Charles’ thigh. Erik rests one elbow on the back of the couch and turns his body towards Charles, crossing one long leg over the other.

“I’ve gone through your contract with Emma, but I wanted to speak to you about specifics,” Erik says, swirling the last drops of whiskey around his glass. “While my mutation provides a natural barrier to telepathic intrusion, I can’t block you completely. I don’t want that to stop you from giving your mutation free reign.” He watches Charles closely for his response, and Charles can only nod, his knees weak with excitement and nerves. He’s suddenly glad they’re sitting down.

“I hope you’re comfortable with telling me when it’s too much?” Charles hazards, “I’ve been told that even a small percentage of my mutation can be overwhelming, and I’d hate it if you bore the brunt of something uncomfortable just because you’re…because I’m—“

“Paying me?” Erik asks, smiling as Charles feels his cheeks ignite. “I can assure you, Dr. Xavier, I have no problem speaking my mind.” His voice slips into a lower register, smooth like butter.

“Please,” Charles asks, a bit breathless, “can you call me Charles?”

Erik sets his drink down on the low table next to the couch and turns his body and attention more fully in Charles’ direction.

“What else would you like, Charles?”

He licks his lips, a nervous habit that draws Erik’s eye. “I was hoping that—I thought that maybe you could blow me?” he asks quickly, more abruptly than he had practiced. “That is…if you wouldn’t mind?”

Erik grins.

“I’d be happy to.” He leans forward, arm sliding along the wood at the back of the couch, metal cufflinks clinking against the wood. When he’s close he dips his head so that he can press a kiss against Charles’ throat, directly against the fluttering pulse of his heartbeat. “And what else would you like,” he murmurs against the skin there before placing another kiss higher, just under the hinge of his jaw, “Charles?”

Charles’ mind is racing and he frantically tries to rein his thoughts in as they race in all directions.

“I want—“ he gasps as Erik’s hand wanders down his chest and presses against his groin, rubbing gently against his cock through layers of clothes.  Erik raises his head and kisses Charles on the mouth, his free hand slipping from the back of the couch to tangle in his hair.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers before kissing Charles again, this time until he’s breathless. Erik breaks away to look at him and Charles can barely hold his gaze, the long fingers massaging him through his trousers making his eyes roll back in his head. It’s been too long, he thinks, his hips thrusting upwards minutely.

“Charles,” Erik whispers, drawing his attention back and kissing him again, gently this time. When their lips part the words are drawn from Charles’ mouth like a fishing line.

“I want you to fuck me.”

Erik’s hand stills its movement but before Charles can protest, Erik is shifting fluidly off the couch onto his knees. His fingers are on Charles’ fly, his mouth blowing hot, damp air against his cock through his briefs before Erik peels those away as well. Charles shifts awkwardly, feeling exposed, but soon enough Erik’s mouth is on him and he forgets everything else.

Charles knew Erik would be skilled – he is a professional after all – but there is no moment to brace himself for the feeling of Erik’s mouth on his cock, the long drag of his tongue from base to tip. Charles makes a somewhat embarrassing sound and slides lower in his seat, encouraged by Erik’s hands on his hips pulling him further toward the edge of the couch.

“I can’t feel you,” Erik says, pulling off to look up at him, licking his lips in a way that makes Charles’ thoughts melt together.

“Put your mouth back on me,” he replies nonsensically, stupid with lust. Erik grins and squeezes his hip.

“I can’t feel you here.” He taps at his temple. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

It is what he wants, but it’s easier said than done. He prods at his shields, tries to relax and let them fall but he can’t, his hands clenched so tight with the effort that his nails bite into his palms. He’s so used to shielding tightly during physical contact that the process of dismantling those shields is virtually unknown to him.

“You’re trying too hard,” Erik says, straightening up on his knees so that they’re nearly eye to eye. Charles pushes again at his shields but they stay stubbornly solid and upright, a tightly woven metal grid that makes something turn over in his stomach when he prods at it, makes his arms and legs feel sick.

“Hey,” Erik says, pressing against the corner of Charles’ mouth with his thumb, easing his frown away. “Breathe for a minute, Charles.” He tries to relax, but can’t seem to ground himself, his body thrumming with lust, his mind closed off defensively. He takes an unsteady breath, and then another longer inhalation of air, trying to clear his mind.

“This is silly,” he says, embarrassed at how his voice wobbles slightly, “I teach children how to control their mutations every day, and I can’t even—“

“You teach control, not freedom,” Erik says softly, staring at Charles intently in a way that makes him want to sink back farther into the couch.

"Control is important."

"It is important," Erik agrees, "but too much control can be damaging." He leans in closer, the firelight over his shoulder turning his hair into a golden halo.

“I could hurt someone,” Charles says quietly, unable to look away from Erik’s steady gaze. “I could hurt you.”

“You could,” Erik nods, “we are at each other’s mercy.” He raises a hand and room shudders around them, furniture groaning, brass candlesticks along the mantle lifting elegantly into the air. Charles’ waistcoat contracts against his chest, the metal buttons burning a line down his sternum and across his stomach. He gasps, and looks up at Erik.

“I can feel the iron in your blood,” he takes one of Charles hands and squeezes it tight. “I could pull you apart—but I won’t. Do you trust me?” The implications of such a gift are spinning through Charles’ mind, but he’s not afraid. He feels strangely drawn to Erik, grounded by his eyes and by the connection of their hands entwined together next to Charles’ thigh.

His mouth is dry and he clears his throat.

“The question is: do _you_ trust _me_?”

Erik smiles.

“You’re with your own kind now.” He bends down and presses his mouth softly against Charles’ lips. “You came here to be free, Charles. Now is the time to let go.”

Charles can’t take it anymore, the soft, gentle tease, the words of understanding, and reaches up to grasp Erik with both hands, kissing him fiercely. Erik responds kiss for kiss, and Charles can feel his mind at the forefront of his brain, a throbbing lodestone leaning against his shields, threatening destruction. _Let go_ , Charles thinks to himself, and grips Erik tightly with his hands and his thighs, muffling a moan against his mouth as the walls shiver and ease away. His mind tangles with Erik’s almost immediately, starved and desperate, wrapping around his thoughts and pouring all of Charles’ urgency into him. Erik gasps and then moans, pulling Charles closer, hands twisting into the fabric at the back of his jacket.

The physical becomes secondary to the sensation of Erik’s mind. There’s something streamlined about it, something industrial but his thoughts are bursting across the surface of Charles’ brain like solar flares, hot and electric white. He’s never touched a mind like this, powerful and alive like a flexing muscle and for a moment he allows himself to drown in it.

When he pulls back slightly and becomes aware of his limbs, reeling in the mental in order to access the physical again, he finds himself wrapped tightly around Erik. The two of them are on the floor, Charles sitting in Erik’s lap and straddling his thighs, fingers clinging tightly to his shoulders, their mouths pressed together but unmoving.

“Are you alright?” Charles whispers against Erik’s mouth. Erik is breathing hard, his chest pressing against Charles’ body with each inhalation, his breath wet against Charles’ bottom lip. Charles kisses him again, slowly, and allows the feeling of it to wash over them both, kissing and being kissed, slowly like an unwinding vine. Erik groans again and thrusts up against him and they both gasp at the feeling of his cock, long and hard, pressing against Charles’ through layers of clothing.

“I can’t—“ another wave of mutual lust rolls over them and Erik jerks like he’s been electrified. He kisses Charles with renewed vigor and grips him tight, lifting him and dumping him on the floor, one hand coming up to cradle his head. “Sorry,” he murmurs against Charles’ throat, kissing him there and then fumbling with his buttons, reaching out with his long fingers to drag the material of his shirt and waistcoat apart.

His mouth against the damp skin of Charles’ chest is too good, better when his licks over one nipple and then other, drawing it gently between his teeth. Charles feels Erik respond to the sensation, his mind alight, his own nipples aching and only transcendently touched. Their hands are shaking, Erik’s as he runs a palm over Charles’ ribs, Charles’ when he reaches out to grip Erik’s hair tightly, sending it into disarray. It seems unbelievable that he only met Erik tonight. The way Erik rubs his rough cheek against Charles’ stomach echoes like a memory in Charles’ mind, his eyes when he bends to take Charles in his mouth again are achingly familiar.

Charles’ telepathy is unspooled now and spilling out of the room and down the hall. He’s himself and he’s Erik and he’s a girl with translucent, fluttering wings dancing naked on top of messy bedsheets, and Emma Frost feeling the pleasurable clench of a tight corset against her ribs, or a man who crackles with electric fire and makes his bedmate gasp and reach out to touch with a three-fingered hand. He’s distantly aware of the noise he’s making, a yearning cry stuck at the back of his throat that morphs into words:

“Wait—wait.”

He tilts his head up enough to catch sight of Erik’s mouth slipping off the end of his cock, his lips red and used.

“Alright?” Erik asks breathlessly. Charles swallows and tries to remember how to use his tongue.

“I need--I’m not going to last,” he clumsily pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I need you to fuck me.” Erik stares at him, hair falling into his eyes, his mouth open, and Charles reaches out for him, tugging restlessly at his shirtsleeve. _Please, Erik_.

Erik crawls over him, the entire length of him sinuous and animal, each muscle seemingly perfectly under his control. Charles kisses him as soon as he’s in reach and tries to undo some of the buttons on his clothes, but his telepathy is a buzzing distraction, sensation flooding in on him from all sides and he can’t seem to get over the razor bright sharpness of Erik’s distinct and beautiful mind.

“Hang on,” Erik whispers, rising to his feet and dragging Charles with him, “the bed.”

They stumble around the couch and through the french doors into the bedroom beyond. Erik struggles with the gauze curtains around the bed for one surreal, hilarious moment that leaves Charles breathless with laughter as he collapses half dressed onto the bed.

“I’m normally much more smooth and accomplished,” Erik says, crawling over Charles through the curtains and pinning his wrists to the mattress. Charles strains against him and when Erik goes to give way with apologies, Charles murmurs _no_ into his mind.

_Hold me tighter_.

Erik holds him more firmly and leans down to drag his nose gently along Charles’ cheek. Charles’ mind is leeching out into the world, but the grip of Erik’s fingers keep him grounded to the silk sheets beneath him.

_How am I going to fuck you when you still have your clothes on?_ Erik gently projects, biting down softly on Charles’ bottom lip, a swell of appreciation for Charles’ mouth swimming through their linked minds. Erik licks at the reddened skin and kisses him again before releasing his hands and sitting back to tug off his trousers.

Together they help each other undress, tossing shirts and socks and underwear over the edge of the massive bed and falling together again skin to skin. When mentally preparing himself and cataloguing his expectations for the night, Charles hadn’t considered long, lingering kisses that set every inch of his body on fire. He’s making tiny, embarrassing sounds with each movement of Erik’s hands across his naked skin, each elegant flick of his tongue in Charles’ mouth. He’s starved for it and his hunger is only spurred by the feeling of Erik’s pleasure in turn, the way Charles’ broad palms are moving unerringly across his own body, the way they fit together, the feeling of Charles’ mouth, of his skin.

Erik squeezes his ass and sends a series of thoughts, _lube_ and _fingers_ and a question mark and Charles thinks _yes yes yes_ so loudly he makes Erik wince. He’s gone and back before Charles can register his departure, the lube cold against his fingers and then Charles’ heat around him as he presses one digit inside him. Charles moans at the sensation and Erik’s hips thrust against the sheets, his ass clenching.

_I can feel that, oh_ \-- he sends, the thought breaking in half as his finger brushes against Charles’ prostate. They’re both moving in rhythm, thrusting their hips as Erik presses another finger inside Charles, scissoring him gently open, licking around his fingers sloppily to make Charles cry out.

“You want it,” Erik groans, working a third finger in,  “oh god, you want it so badly.”

_I do,_ Charles replies, nearly incoherent and finally, finally Erik is kneeling up and spreading Charles’ legs wide open, making space for himself as he works his cock inside. He falls over Charles, his palms on either side of Charles’ shoulders, his head hung low and close enough for Charles to strain and steal a kiss.

_You’re inside me and I’m inside you_ , Erik sends, his mental voice broken, his body shuddering. For a moment everything is frozen as the sensation cycles through them, both inside and outside. Charles has never felt like this before--like he’s fucking someone and being fucked at the same time--and his mind is both wide open and focused entirely on Erik in this moment.

Finally Erik moves his hips and they groan against each other’s mouths. Erik’s skin is slick where Charles tries to cling to him, but he finds purchase and hangs on, his own skin on fire as his nails break through the flesh over Erik’s spine. Erik works his hands under Charles’ back and grips his shoulders tightly, pulling him down onto his cock until they’re rutting together, skin against skin, thought against thought, nothing between them but the sliver of space between their lips, left only so that air can slip into their lungs.

They are full of each other, the lines and shapes that make up their bodies and the room beyond blurring into something full of sensation and colour and entirely whole, and finally, when Charles can’t hang on any longer, his mind blots out into pure white, shooting off into all directions as his body clenches down onto Erik’s cock. The physical sensation of his own orgasm is almost secondary to the feeling of Erik coming at the same time, the two of them spiralling into a blank, dark space that is quiet and calm, their bodies and minds safely intertwined.

Time passes and all he can hear or feel is the sound of his own heartbeat, and the rhythm of Erik’s breathing. Bit by bit the world creeps back in, colour and light bleeding back into his eyes, the dimensions of the room making themselves known. Charles tries to catch his breath. His muscles are shaking and his mind feels completely wrung out. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such quiet, such peaceful serenity to his thoughts. It’s as though a hurricane has swept through his brain and washed away all the dirt and clutter. He feels liberated.

“That was--” Erik can barely breathe, and Charles feels a bit smug, “that was amazing.” He flops over onto his back and Charles admires the muscles of his chest and stomach as they strain to bring air into his lungs. “I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

Charles’ telepathy is still open and unfettered, and like the slow fall of rain before a downpour he can feel the thoughts of the closest minds trickling into his brain like water seeping into dry soil. There’s a buzzing miasma of lust and groaning satisfaction and he breathes it in before slowly rebuilding his shields, taking his time to seal off each thought as it grows louder, moving close enough to intrude.

“I think I might have shared that experience with the entire building,” Charles laughs, “I hope you’ll apologize to your colleagues for me.”

“Don’t apologize for that. If they got a taste of what I got, they should count themselves lucky.” Erik peels the condom off and deposits it neatly in a conveniently placed trashcan next to the bed. Charles tries to remember him even taking the time to put it on, but feels his thoughts scatter as Erik rolls over and props himself up on one elbow, his other hand sneaking around to the small of Charles back. Charles shivers at the feeling of his callused fingers spread wide against the sensitive skin there and stretches languidly to push more of himself into Erik’s embrace, content to bask in the afterglow while it lasts.

_Beautiful_. The thought pushes through suddenly, and Charles looks up at Erik to judge whether he’s joking or not. He’s smiling but he looks earnest enough, and he says, “amazing,” again like he really means it. _He was worth every penny_ , Charles thinks.

He laughs to cover the way his cheeks are heating, twisting within Erik’s arms to push a hand through his sweaty hair.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve done your due diligence for the night, darling. You don’t have to flatter me anymore.”

Charles feels the flash of something sharp across Erik’s mind.

“Hasn’t anyone ever paid you a compliment, Professor?” The words are said teasingly, but Charles can feel Erik’s thoughts churning away beneath the surface. He has a feeling he’s misspoken and he quickly throws up a block between them, unwilling to ruin the moment by discovering that he’s offended Erik in some way.

He turns away from Erik’s furrowed brow and slides out from under his arm to sit at the edge of the bed, stretching slowly and smiling when he feels Erik’s brain light up. The physical has always been so much easier. He always knows where he stands—attraction or disinterest in the body have always been clearly delineated within the mind. He knows how Erik feels about the freckles on his arms, the way the muscles move beneath his shoulders. It’s easier to deal with than the sticky thoughts within Erik’s mind.

"I get lots of compliments," he says with a laugh. He turns to grin at Erik over his shoulder and falters when he sees that Erik still looks troubled.

"I'm sure you do," Erik says, sitting up slowly to rest against the headboard. Charles is momentarily distracted as he stretches his legs out, lean muscles flexing. "Has anyone ever complimented your mutation?" Charles turns toward the discarded clothes on the floor.

"I'm sure you know as well as I do how most people feel about mutations." He finds his button up shirt crumpled into a ball beneath the box spring and pulls it out. "And telepathy in particular seems to be rather polarizing." He slides the shirt on his shoulders and grabs his briefs from the floor, standing to tug them on. "I mean, I can understand why. Even other mutants find it hard to tolerate someone who could have that much control over their mind."

Erik's mind flashes again and Charles throws up another block. As always, the worse thing about telepathy is knowing the unkind things people think about you. He doesn't want to burst the illusion they're caught in, beautiful and accepting and serene. He doesn't want to hear Erik's fear or worry.

"Stop doing that," Erik says suddenly.

"What? I'm--" his stomach drops as Erik puts his palm to his forehead. "Oh god, did that hurt? I'm sorry--" Reflexively his shields slam back into place and Erik flinches and cries out, his hand pressing down more firmly on his forehead. "Oh god I'm so sorry--" Charles crawls onto the bed, hands fluttering at Erik but not landing on his skin for fear of causing him further pain. "What is it, what happened?" Erik reaches out a hand and grabs hold of his forearm tightly.

“It’s fine,” he says, tugging Charles closer. “Can you relax a bit?” Charles sits quickly, his knees bumping against Erik’s ribs. He tries to breathe and ease his shoulders from where they’re screwed up tightly next to his ears. Erik still looks a bit pinched, but he smiles at Charles and says, “no, I meant—“ he lets go of Charles arm and places his fingers against Charles’ forehead, “can you relax here?”

“Oh…” Charles focuses on his shields and urges them ease back a bit. It’s not until Erik’s consciousness rushes back in that Charles realizes how clumsily he had severed their connection. The link between them throbs and settles as they both relax, Erik’s expression easing as he runs a hand over Charles’ hair.

“Don’t apologize,” he says when Charles opens his mouth, gripping him solidly at the back of his neck, “it just caught me by surprise.” His fingers squeeze slightly. “And I have a feeling that there aren’t many people who allow you to keep a link in place?”

Charles shakes his head. “I’m not used to maintaining a connection,” he says slowly. He can feel a warmth through their connection and it buoys him up enough to ask: “Maybe that’s something we could work on? If I came to see you again?” He watches Erik carefully to try and judge his reaction.

There’s a long pause where Charles can feel the shape of Erik’s thoughts grow thick and tangled. “Not that I like to ask for help,” he blurts, to fill in the silence. “I’m used to teaching, so I’m sure I’ll be a problematic student. You know what they say about doctors being the worst patients—“

“I’d be happy to see you, Charles,” Erik interjects with a laugh. “But...I don’t normally take on long-term clients.”

“Oh,” Charles says, feeling a bit derailed, “I don’t understand...?”

“I’m proposing that we continue this outside of the club. No payment, no paperwork.” No paperwork. The thought sends his mind spinning. No paperwork means no non-disclosure agreement. He’d be putting himself at the mercy of a man he barely knows, who could sell all of Charles’ secrets to the tabloids for a tidy sum. He can feel his shields quivering, aching to close ranks.

“Charles,” Erik says gently, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against his lips. “All I’m asking for is dinner. The rest is up to you.” He watches Erik closely, feels his mind reaching tentative golden strands out to keep them connected even as Charles’ brain tries to bury and hide. He remembers how Erik asked if he trusted him.

“Okay,” he says, and smiles when Erik smiles. “Yes.”

"Okay," Erik echoes, his grin spreading to show all his teeth. He reaches out and tugs at the open flap of Charles' unbuttoned shirt. "Are you going somewhere Doctor Xavier? I thought you had paid for the night?"

His mind is glowing like a smouldering fire and the warmth of it, the growth of a tentative emotion is rolling into Charles like smoke. Charles peels off his shirt and allows the last pieces of his shields to crumble.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this comes from the song written by Bob Dylan. Thanks again to Ike for listening to me complain about writer's block and my dried up brain <33


End file.
